Elsie Embalmed
by Sidhe713
Summary: Ms. Elsie is a mortician; or rather, an apprentice. But when she and her guardian learn that her birth father is looking for her with intent to kill, Undertaker has to let his pet go...into none but the hands of Master Ciel and his servants.
1. Chapter 1: Dead Like a Fish

I died on September 13th, 1871, at the age of seven.

But of course, I wouldn't stay that way.

The truth behind my resurrection shall be examined in a short time. But first, here's a little information that I believe you—as the reader—should know.

It's not information about me, be assured.

It's about my dear, sweet mother and father.

The Lord and Lady Webb didn't celebrate their marriage as much as they tolerated it. My mother, Lady Abigail Webb, stayed with my father simply for the pleasures of the upper class and the preservation of her noble blood. And the only reason my father hadn't disposed of her, or me for that matter, was due to his insatiable thirst for owning things—and people. To the public eye, the radiant Lady and her stately Lord were the very picture of refinement and happiness.

But in the dead of night when I was lying in my bed, I could hear my mother screaming. The next day, my eyes would be bruised from a sleepless night. Hers would be bruised quite literally.

In the winter of 1869, when I was just a child, Lord Harold Webb left for a trip to France.

He never came back.

My mother's skin was never bruised again.

That is, until September 13th, 1871.

Our mangled bodies were dragged out of the crashed carriage at approximately 3:46 in the afternoon on a rainy Tuesday. Lady Abigail Webb was pronounced dead at the scene. And I, Elsie Webb, was pronounced dead only a moment later. I never saw my mother's corpse, but I had heard that all of her limbs had been twisted into unimaginable positions. Her face, I was told, was hardly recognizable.

And I, her sheltered child, was found protected by her mangled arms. However, even my mother's protection couldn't save my fragile young skull from suffering a blow hard enough to stop my life immediately.

But that's the funny thing about death. You see, clinical death and legal death are not quite the same. I had been pronounced legally dead without full examination of clinical death. When I was toted into the Undertaker's funeral parlor, Elsie Webb was scratched out of the records. Dead, deceased, forgotten.

Yet, even when the hearts stops beating, the conscious mind isn't always gone.

There was still enough blood traveling through my veins to keep my brain and my limbs alive.

The Undertaker found this out after laying my naked body on the operating table and beginning the first incision. Ms. Elsie Webb would not be embalmed, no siree. Ms. Elsie Webb was not dead just yet.

As his scalpel grazed the center of my chest, a thick trickle of blood poured out.

And it was still warm.

I don't think it was love that led the Undertaker to nurse be back to consciousness. I believe it was more of a matter of business than anything else. He needed an apprentice; someone who would stay by him unconditionally, someone who had nothing else to live for.

And I was now an orphan who, by society's standards, didn't exist.

Not to mention, I owed this man my life.

I woke up, whimpering pathetically, in the middle of the night. My eyes were covered in a bandage, but without even seeing my environment, I could smell the stench of death and knew that I was not home. The next thing I heard was the high-pitched, cockney voice of my new guardian. He was telling me that I was alive. Alive, alive, alive, but how? There was a gunshot. No, a crash. I don't even remember…

It didn't matter anymore. I was dead. Not physically, but socially.

The Webb empire had ended.

Our history was now all but faded into memory.

The tale of the upright house of Webb had now become the story of a filthy, sniveling funeral rat.

...

"Elsie!...Elsie, get in here!"

The Undertaker's voice echoed through the small, cramped hallways of the funeral parlor I called my home. He had interrupted a very precious moment. Just before he called for me, I had been blissfully staring out the window at noblewomen passing by. So lovely they were, in their gowns with their lacy hats perfectly placed atop their clean, flowing curls. Once upon a time, I could have been one of them. But here I was, ogling. Such a creepy girl I must have seemed, staring out the window for hours on end at strangers. If only one would catch my eye. That awkward second of unexpected human contact was a momentary pleasure I had yet to experience.

"Elsie!"

"Coming, sir!" I screamed back as I reluctantly pulled myself away from the window. I picked up the ragged train of my dress and stomped down the rickety stairs towards my master's calling.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I stopped before a set of open doors. My master, or _father_, as he had instructed me to call him, was just a silhouette in front of an overpowering yellow gaslight. His long gray hair cast a shadow of its own as it separated from his shape in a mess of tangled split ends.

Broken, half-crazed…this is how I always remembered him.

"Yes, mas-…father?" I stepped into the embalming room casually. After all, nothing scares a girl after she's seen and touched a thousand dead bodies.

The Undertaker was bent over his newest friend, a man of approximately thirty years of age who had drowned in the river just hours ago. His naked body was colored a murky gray, like most, with swollen lips and digits from his stay at the bottom of the river. He was stiff, unmoving…like a fish, I thought to myself with a tiny chuckle. Just like a dead fish.

"Ah, there you are, my pet." Undertaker patted me on the head like a precious doll, smiling widely from ear to ear with a mouth full of sharp, jagged teeth.

I smiled at him gently, and then gave the dead man's arm a playful little poke. "Who's our guest?" I asked.

My master reached out and grabbed the dead man's eyelids, prying them open to reveal white, veiny eyeballs underneath them. "Robert Hutch." He said, giving the corpse a little slap to the side of the face, making his bloated cheeks jiggle comically. "Thirty-two years old, father of two, successful fisherman…Trouble is, the sod couldn't swim. Poor bloke. We'll have to drain his lungs, we will."

"So what do you need me to do?" I asked as my attention was drawn to the sets of tools sitting on the desk beside me. I picked up a pair of rusted clamps and listened to them clank together.

"You, my dear," Undertaker grabbed the utensil from my hands with a swift yoink, "are gonna loosen this man up. He's got the rigor. You've gotta—"

"I know, I know, massage the joints until they loosen." I grabbed ol' Robert's arm and began twisting the skin between my clenched fists. "Relieve the tension in the muscles before we drain 'em, yeah, yeah, I know."

My master wore a wide grin on his parchment-gray face. "That's me good girl," he said as he gave me another pat on the head and made his way to the door. A girl, he called me, like I was still a child. I think, in his mind, I would always be the seven-year old he had almost embalmed; not the 20-year old that now worked under his keep.

"Let me know when you're done," he instructed from the next room. "And remember to shove some cotton down 'is throat before you sew his mouth shut. We don't want the smell traveling up his nasal cavity, now do we?"

_No, father_, I thought to myself as I stared into the dead man's eyes as I massaged the rigor mortis from his ice-cold limbs.

_We most certainly don't…_


	2. Chapter 2: The Photo

There was a reason I always wore brown.

Even with a thick, grubby apron tied to my front, stains were almost impossible to avoid in the business. After rigor mortis was relieved and the jaw was painstakingly sewn shut, the body was drained of blood before being replaced with preserving fluid.

This was normally something my father did, but today he had a very special appointment. A young mister Ciel Phantomhive was stopping by for a chat, and it seems that my master Undertaker was looking forward to it. 

All morning, he had been skulking about the home with his always-so-peculiar grin on his face. It was nothing strange, of course. He often spent hours of his day dusting off the many caskets propped up against the walls and laying out all his measurements with a precise art. But today, of all days, he seemed especially chipper. 

But enough of that talk. Back to the color brown…

After death, the blood turns cold and seeps out slowly, seeing as there's no pressure being applied to the veins naturally. Because of this, to make the process quicker, it would often be necessary to squeeze the area where the puncture had been made. Now and again, when the time was right, this could lead to a very messy conclusion. The first time I was sprayed with a face-full of blood was a truly vomit-inducting experience. After that, I had gotten over the initial shock. Even with goggles, an apron, and my hair tied back, I almost always left the embalming room with bloodstains all over my dress. They would dry and turn from a deep red to a dark auburn. And this, my friends, is why I always wore brown. 

I had just finished emptying the blood basin for the second time when there was a heavy knock at the front door. Lord Phantomhive, I was sure. 

"Elsie, child, get that will you?" My master's voice called from somewhere down the hall. I swiftly wiped my hands on a stained linen rag and dropped it on the table. There was another knock, this time harder than the first. With a heavy sigh of frustration, I untied the ribbon from my hair and let my thick, messy bundle of long ginger-colored hair fall down my back as I trotted off to tend to our impatient guest. 

I straightened my back and swung the door open, still clad in my filthy apron with goggles pushing my bangs off my forehead. My hypothesis was wrong. The man at the door was not Lord Phantomhive, as I had suspected. Instead, it was a young gentleman with short brown hair that I had never seen before in my life. 

The elegantly-dressed man smiled at me warmly. I did not return the gesture. 

"Mademoiselle," he said with a thick accent. He made to grab my hand, before noticing the coagulated blood stuffed underneath my fingernails. He changed his mind last minute and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. "Bastian Beauchamp."

"Come in." I stepped out of the way and let the Frenchman enter. "I presume you're looking for the Undertaker?"

Beauchamp crossed the threshold tenderly, as though afraid he would step in something unsavory. "Actually, mademoiselle," he said as he straightened his petticoat. "I'm looking for someone. Perhaps you can help me."

The look he gave me was anything but comfortable. My only wish was for this man and all his stuck-up glory to leave at once, and never come back.

"Depends." I answered him coldly. "Who is it you're searching for?"

Beauchamp rustled around in the pocket of his coat quickly and pulled out an old, yellow-parchment photograph. "I'm working for a nobleman," he said before handing me the photograph. "His daughter went missing as a child, and there's been rumors of her appearance around town. All we have is a baby picture, unfortunately. But she should be about your age now, actually. Isn't that funny?"

I wasn't exactly humored, to say the least. I took the photograph from him reluctantly, all the while thinking of how wasteful this was on my day. That's when I saw her. Beautiful, pale, smiling so brightly with a small child sitting on her lap.

My mother.

And the child was me. 

"Never seen her before in my life." I handed the photograph back with a flourish. I was sick to my stomach. This man had the nerve to step into my home and bring a curse like that with him, like some kind of joke. What was wrong with some people? 

Just then, the Undertaker had appeared in the doorway, watching curiously from the half-shadows to the horror of our unwanted guest. "'Ello there, sir." He said greasily. "Come for a coffin fitting?"

Beauchamp swallowed nervously, his pale blue eyes widened to twice their size. "Uh, n-no thank you, sir. That won't be necessary. I was just here asking a few—"

"Askin' a few questions of me daughter?" My master approached, putting a hand around my shoulder protectively. His long, black fingernails snapped against the cloth of my dress one at a time. "I think she's told you all she knows. It'd be best if you went along now, we're quite busy at the moment. Unless, of course, you'd like us to clean you up all pretty-like and put you on display."

Undertaker chuckled as nervous Beauchamp stuffed the photograph back in his pocket as quickly as he could and backed up towards the door. "I-I suppose you're right. Sorry to have bothered you." He stammered, tipping his hat lightly and searching for the doorknob. "F-Farewell."

The door slammed and the suspicious Frenchman was gone. My wish was granted. 

Undertaker patted me on the shoulder lightly and was making his way back to the sitting room. But I stopped him. I grabbed him by the sleeve of his long, black coat and waited for him to turn and notice me. I had very important business to discuss. 

"Sir," I began coolly as my guardian turned with a curious frown on his face.

"Why would that man have my baby picture?" 

My master cleared his throat, putting a finger to his mouth in thought. He was hesitant to answer me, I could tell. But as long as I held on to his coat, he wasn't leaving without giving me the reply that I sought.

"Elsie," Undertaker said in a hoarse whisper. "I…I think you and I need to have a talk."


	3. Chapter 3: Head Full of Lead

**Author's Note:**_ Just a small head's up to anyone who reads my stories: I know I've been cranking them out like a production line in the last couple days, but things will probably slow down a tick, unfortunately. I have to spend a while in the hospital (shitdamnbollocks) and the rest of my time will be dedicated to my work. But I'll try not to disappear for too long, if it means some. That's all I have to say! Hm...thanks for reading! Oh shit, I thought I had said enough. Gah, there I go again! Sorry! Sorry again! SORRY!_

_...  
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"I was afraid it would happen like this." 

Undertaker always brewed the tea extra strong. I had a taste for fainter teas, but I wouldn't want to tell him that. It would break his warm, friendly heart.

He poured two cups near to overflowing and pushed one towards me with a sleeve-covered hand. He was trembling; not much, but still noticeable. It was rare of my guardian to ever show weakness. I thought for the longest time that he was a man without fear or regrets. Always smiling…always up to something.

I took a tiny sip of my tea, grimacing slightly as the overpowering taste hit my pallet. "What were you afraid of?" I asked him calmly. Sure, I may have been subdued on the outside, but if you could have heard my heart at that moment, you might have been able to dance a jig to the beat.

My guardian took a deep breath and picked up his cup, letting it warm his long, slender fingers. "I had heard a rumor quite a while ago," he said, "that Lord Webb was returning from France." 

"So my father is alive?" I sounded almost too surprised. After all this time, never had I imagined that my biological father was out and about, roaming around Europe. I never asked if his body was found, I never thought once about a murderer, and the idea never crossed my mind to look for him. Lord Webb was gone. That was the fact, and I refused to hear anything otherwise. 

Although my master's eyes were shielded by his hair, I imagine they were looking quite dull and disenchanted right now. He bowed his head and watched the steam from his teacup rise and swirl in the air before it disappeared in his face. "He's not your father, Elsie." He said hoarsely. He wore a very strange frown that was neither angry nor depressed, but rather a peculiar mixture of the two. 

"He didn't raise you," Undertaker continued. "He didn't bring you up or take care of you, and he didn't love you. He's not your father."

Lord Webb was a stranger to me; this much was correct. But all the same, I sensed a bit of secrecy here in this room, sitting at this table, looking straight at me. There were secrets stashed in his pockets, in his hat, up his sleeves, probably even under his skin. No, scratch that last; _especially _under his skin.

Undertaker was keeping something from me. 

"You know something." I stated harshly, pushing my teacup away as though it was some small act of rebellion that would change the world. "What do you know?"

For the first time since we had sat down, the Undertaker broke into a crooked smile. "Not so nice of a young lady to command such things from her own father, now is it?" he said slyly. I didn't answer him. Instead, I crossed my arms over my chest and waited. I would wait until morning if I had to. He couldn't hold out that long, I knew that much.

And then, he sighed. It was a long, heavy sigh. Perhaps a sigh of defeat? 

So soon, Undertaker, so soon…won't you resists at all? 

"You're right," he said very simply, taking one last sip of his tea and placing it back on the table with a dull 'thunk'. He reached his long, thin arms across the table and held a hand out to me, beckoning. Hesitantly, I abandoned my stubbornness. I leaned across the table towards my guardian, my_ real_ father, and took his hand in mine.

"Elsie, my dear girl, promise me that no matter what I tell you…

…you won't allow yourself to go chasing ghosts."

…

That afternoon, the Undertaker told me a tale. It was the true story of the day that I died. And he began that story with three simple words.

"You looked wretched," he told me. "When they brought you and your mother in, it was…delightful. Your blood was of the brightest red. So young. And your mother, she had such grace, even broken to pieces. They told me your carriage had suddenly spun out of control and crashed into a gentleman's club, how quirky is that? But then I knew that something was odd. Your dear mother was awfully disfigured, but you however…there was only one wound in particular that caught my attention." 

I knew what he spoke of right from the beginning. My finger rose and grazed a cold, metal plate sunk into the side of my head. Around it spread a web of stitch-less scars, still raised and bumpy to the touch, although invisible when covered by my hair. 

"Yes, that." Undertaker nodded solemnly. "You were lucky, my pet. If that carriage hadn't swerved, the bullet would have gone straight in between your eyes." 

"What bullet?" My stomach dropped. It was all too much to hear at once. "You told me I cracked my head when we crashed. You told me it was-"

"I lied!" 

Never before had the Undertaker raised his voice to me. He, my loving guardian and surrogate father…he had never been anything but gentle. But now he slapped his hands against the table and stood, looming, above me with his teeth gritted in frustration. What had I done, master?

What horrors have I caused you? 

"I lied." He repeated himself, this time with less anger. His frown slowly disappeared as he sat himself back in his chair gingerly, his hands still quivering. "I'm sorry, Elsie. But for your sake, I didn't tell you. I knew it would only upset you, and you were…so young. Too young to understand it."

My composure came back to me. I took a deep, steady breath and stared across the table at my master with expressionless eyes. 

"I'm not too young now, father." 

To my surprise, Undertaker smiled. "I know." He replied. His grin was simple and pleasant, as though he had been waiting for me to make that first move. Now he knew.

He knew that I wanted to hear everything. 

"I would love to pretend that everything was an accident," he said to me softly, "but unfortunately, that isn't the case, love. All this time, I've wanted to let you go outside. Really, I have. You're like me own creation, Elsie, straight out of the woodwork. Please understand that, you're precious to me, and always such a good help. That's why I've kept you in here. The way I see it, if someone was willing to assassinate a seven-year old girl in front of her own mum, there's no reason they wouldn't come back and try it again." 

Assassinate? What a sharp, unpleasant word. Even speaking it; that harsh flick of the tongue, the intense 't' following a slither...it was perfectly fitting, in every way.

I had so many questions. Who, why? None of them, however, could be answered by my Undertaker. 

"I…I don't understand." I said exactly what I thought. Tunnel vision was starting to take over, sending me into a raging fit of paranoia. Every sound, every movement, ever creaking of the old building as it settled could be someone barging in to finally end my short life. My eyes darted from one corner to the next as though waiting for the ax to drop. 

Off with her head, off with her head. 

Down goes the blade. 

"But…my birth records," I suddenly had a thought. "I've been recorded as dead. If that Frenchman wanted to kill me, wouldn't he have danced victory thirteen years ago?" 

It's then that I noticed a little something in my master's face. It was an expression I had yet to see from him. It may have been there all along, hidden behind his quirks and his madness. It was shame.

"I did something horrible," Undertaker said sorrowfully. "Elsie, I beg you to forgive me. This is my fault, every part of it…."

I shook my head. "No, father." I told him consolingly. I dashed to his side of the table, lacing an arm around his shoulders and hugging him against my chest. "Nothing you could have done would make any difference. You saved me, remember? You're the reason I'm still here." 

"I filled it with sand." 

It was an odd reply to say the least. "Hunh?" I murmured without a clue. Undertaker stared down at his hands, whispering something under his breath. He clenched his fists tightly, pursing his lips with a sense of self-loathing I had never seen from him until now.

"Your casket," he explained to me in a cold, sharp voice. "I filled your casket with sand. They put it in the family tomb, next to your mother's…I didn't even think." 

The family tomb…

I had worked in the business of death long enough to know what troubled my master. 

Once my replacement corpse was placed in the Webb family tomb, only one person had access to see it.

Only one person would see those bags of sand.

Only one person knew that I was alive.

Lord Harold Webb, my father, and the man who tried to take my life.


End file.
